| I don’t know why. I return only to become raveled up in it again; the bare-naked freedom of it all, Baja.
To the north of me, vision of freedom is ideal, yet cloaked in a layer of laws thick enough to butter your bread 33 times over. And
that’s the way they sell it, in batches of six-second sound bites, cell phones, a quick fix to your personal economy and the
next freebie they fondle in front of your vote.
Of these things I know, for I live there, and as long as I’m alive, it will remain, “the land of the free and the home of the brave.” I shall never give up the ship, in spite of the
liberal temper tantrum going down in the Al Gore camp over in the sunshine state of Florida. He’s a has-been, and all
he’s ever been is a loser, and that’s all he’ll ever amount to: a loser.
Now, as I look out over the dashboard of this beast-like Ford F350, the ORC War Wagon 1, I see a land much
different. Just to the south of this border is something more real than an acid trip to Disneyland. I know exactly what it is: Baja.
Inside the mind of one school of thought, the place is a nightmare of personal responsibility, deluged with the trap doors that every
third-world country generally conjures up. Here, the lack of logic and common sense in one man’s repetoire can leave him with a
dry mouth and a dead car somewhere off the beaten path of Puertocitos Highway. To make a short story longer, the people of Baja are resourceful, friendly and a carry a heart of gold with every good-time and smile they come through with. They can turn a
’79 Datsun B210 into a Baja-style Mazaratti.
Now in the mind of a Baja-cozy gringo, legends and daydreams are forever. Once he’s laid tracks upon Baja’s bosom, a part of him never
leaves. That’s why I’ve returned.
With Wall Of Voodoo polishing off the latest round of “Mexican Radio” on the War Wagons sound system, I peer beyond the night sky, and there
it is, the gateway to the Baja Peninsula: Tijuana. Many claim the place is the armpit of the peninsula. I don’t. I see it as the simple line between here and there.
Pat Chicas lowers the volume on the boisterous racket blaring from the CD player and cranks up the two-way FM “race” radio to get the latest
word over the ORC airwaves.
We’ve just crossed the border and have now entered into the land of Baja legends. We’re headed to Rick Sieman’s pad, with General Manager Eddie Perez
trailing close behind, driving the ORC “Disco Jeep” with Managing Editor Norm Lenhart sitting shotgun. Now that’s
a pair for you: Norm chasing down a can of Kodiak chew with a shot of codeine for good measure. And Eddie, well, let us end the night
enjoying the rest of this cold Tecate, a Baja necessity.
Radio blaring, we cut through the Tijuana traffic, cornering the off-camber apex onto the Highway 1, the toll road. We are on our
way.
Pat opens up the mike on the radio and mutters a cold-hearted attack towards the Disco Jeep and Norm coughs-up a quick come back,
no doubt accompanied by a thin drool of tobacco spittle down his scraggly chin. On the radio, some another set of racers patch in on
the ORC frequency. Their topic of conversation, “This Al Gore election crap. . .” Well, that will just about say it all.
We’re not alone out here. And life will go on without us – back in the States.
Pulling into to Rosarito, about 45 miles north of Ensenada, we prepare ourselves the first night’s stay. This may not be all that I expected. You see,
some of you may know Rick, but for me, I’ve only read about the dude. Sure, I’ve met the guy on a few dusty roads in the
middle of a cactus and a cold one just north of San Felipe. But, never have I sat down to figure this fellow out. Either I’m a stranger in a strange land, or this dude’s an odd fellow.
No,not a limp-wrist, but a dirt-bike guru gone code-cracking computer geek. Needless to say, I’m impressed.
The guy is a shop manual of motocross and the mayhem of Monkey Butt. He hits the bullfight like a friendly drunk. Except, he don’t (pardon the
grammar) drink a real man’s brew. The stuff he guzzles ismanicured into a non-alcoholic liver-saver that he probably bought
for three pesos a six-pack.
Well, it’s about time to get backto this cold Tecate for a few rounds of some bench racing. We’ve got another beer run on the agenda before the tacotruck call it quits. Pat is transforming into beer-buzzing bad boy.
And Rick is getting a bit mushy with his woman.
In closing, what Rick does is not illegal. What Rick does is equated to that of a modern day pirate. I won’t say much more beyond that but to say that I’ll be enjoying this next round of cold ones before
the sun comes up over the starlit mountain tops.
Until manana my friend, when we head down the road towards the Baja 2000 Contingency.
Road Condition Index
